


What If I Stayed Forever

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Doctor!John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John makes them better, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Sherlock Has Issues, Whipping, coporal punishment, making you wonder about the Holmes family, seriously all the feels, slow progression from friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmes family has always had their own way of keeping Sherlock under control. When John finds out that Mycroft has kept up the tradition, he puts a stop to it. </p><p>But years of being told that he's not worthy of affection, only discipline through punishment, has broken Sherlock in ways that John can't imagine, and John has no idea if he can be enough to put Sherlock back together again.</p><p>Fortunately Captain John Watson never steps down from a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> This is actually my first commissioned piece for someone who wishes to remain anon.

John hears the low, familiar sound of Mycroft's voice before he even gets halfway up the stairs. He stops immediately, fingers flexing nervously around the rail, debating on whether he wants to keep going. He's not really in the mood to see Mycroft right now, not sure he can keep from punching the man in the face after the run around he and Sherlock have been given the past few months, but at the same time the thought of turning away seems cowardly. All day at the surgery, he's dreamed about having a nice cup of tea and a sit down in front of the telly with Sherlock. Why should he let Mycroft drive him away from the flat?

Decision made, he squares his shoulders and takes the rest of the steps as lightly as possible. Pointless, no doubt, but it makes him feel better. And as he gets closer, he can hear more clearly: Mycroft is scolding Sherlock, the words too muffled to make out but the tone of his voice unmistakable, and there's another sound that John can't place. Sherlock's voice is conspicuously missing, but that _sound_...

Thick, almost, and meaty, with a thin whistling -

John's body is moving before his mind catches up, throwing the door open to the very last thing he's expecting to see. Sherlock is on his knees in the middle of the room, arms bound neatly at the base of his spine. His shoulders and face are pressed against the bare wood of the floor, naked thighs, arse and back presenting a presumably appealing landscape for the brother standing over him wielding both a thick strap and a cane.

"What," John says surprisingly steadily, "the fuck is going on?"

"Ah, Doctor Watson," Mycroft says, like this is something John walks in on every day. "It's good to see you again. I see your shift at the surgery was a success, though that poor girl must have been quite upset when you told her she was pregnant."

Even living with Sherlock, it never gets any less disorienting to hear Mycroft deduce him so easily. John squeezes the doorknob tightly, swaying closer. "Mycroft, what the hell are you doing?"

"Discipline." Mycroft snaps the air with the strap, and Sherlock, for god's sake _Sherlock_ , actually flinches. 

"Discipline," John repeats faintly.

"Of course. Sherlock's always been a handful, you must have realized that by now. Daddy always had a bit of a rough time keeping him under control until he learned what worked best. He had a rather more delicate touch than I do, I'm afraid, but I like to think I get a little better each time I practice. And Sherlock gives me so many opportunities for that." Mycroft sounds very calm, very composed, as he glances over at John. "His actions yesterday were inexcusable, as I'm sure you well know."

"Well, yes, but -" John cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. He takes a step into the room, leaving the door open, and gets just close enough to be able to get a better look at the unusually quiet, unresponsive Sherlock. What he sees makes his breath catch. Every inch of bare skin is liberally covered with bruises, some at least an hour old. Some of the welts have split and look bloody and raw. 

"Not bad, right?" Mycroft says with a faint smile. "I'm better with the crop, but Sherlock's gone and hidden it this time so I had to improvise -"

"Get out."

"Sorry?"

"Get. Out." John is shaking, and for the first time in his life he knows what it means to see red. He feels like he's seeing the room through a faint red haze. He wants to kill Mycroft. Could, very easily.

"John -" And Mycroft goes to, well maybe he's just lifting his hands in a placating gesture but that's not how John interprets it, that strap is too fucking close to Sherlock, and John reacts. 

Mycroft stumbles backwards from the force of the blow, which catches him neatly on the lower jaw and snaps his head back. He drops the strap and the cane and brings a hand up to his face, looking more surprised than hurt. Sherlock jumps and then starts trying to twist around, obviously wanting to see what's happening, before subsiding with a low hiss of pain that only enrages John more. 

"If you ever put your hand on Sherlock again, I will kill you," John says. He doesn't say it angry, or even cold, he says it like it's a fact because it is. "I will fucking kill you _dead_ , Mycroft Holmes. Now get out of our flat and don't come back. Sherlock's done with you, and if I ever see you again that punch will be the least of your concerns."

For a moment, it seems as though Mycroft might argue. Might try to point out just how ludicrous John's threat really is. But John just stares at him, silently daring, and eventually Mycroft just sniffs and adjusts his coat in a manner achingly reminiscent of Sherlock and walks out. As soon as the downstairs door shuts, John grabs the strap and the cane and chucks the two of them out the window. He hopes they hit Mycroft on his fat head on the way down.

He locks the door before turning to look at Sherlock, who has yet to move. John approaches him slowly, the way one would a skittish animal, and kneels. Up close the damage looks even worse, and he tries so hard to be gentle as he cuts Sherlock's hands free. "Are you alright?" he asks, foolish question though it may be.

"I'm fine."

Two words, two words that are blatantly not true, but they make something hard in John's chest go soft and warm at the edges with relief. He swallows roughly and puts a steadying hand on Sherlock's shoulder when the man tries to move. "Don't. You've got some welts that need to be looked after. I'll get my kit."

In the bathroom, he takes the time to scrub his face with cold water before he fetches the kit they keep on hand. Amazingly, Sherlock is in the same place when he returns and that, more than anything, speaks to his state of mind. John sits down behind him and takes out sterilizing wipes. His touch is deft and light, but Sherlock still tenses with the pain. John murmurs a string of apologies and soothing words as he cleans away the worst of the blood and rubs on ointment. He's relieved to see that the welts aren't as bad as he'd thought, though he knows they still hurt plenty.

He applies butterfly bandages to the worst of them, and then coats every visible bruise liberally with a cream. He's especially generous around Sherlock's thighs and arse, because that's where the majority of the bruising is located. Mycroft, bastard though he may be, was not lying when he said he'd had practice: all of the bruises will fade, none of the welts will scar, and in a couple of weeks all physical damage will have healed. It's the emotional damage John's concerned about now.

"Will I live, Doctor?" Sherlock says at last.

"You? Yes. Your brother? Jury's still out," John says, and Sherlock huffs a laugh. He winces, then, and John has to close his eyes to keep his temper. When he's relatively sure he can speak again without talking about the amount of ways Mycroft should die, he says, "Here, I'll help you to the sofa."

It takes time to get Sherlock off of the floor. He's silent through the whole thing, but he's biting his lip so hard the skin splits. His knuckles turn white from how tightly he's fisting his hands. John ends up practically lifting and carrying him the short distance to the sofa, where he helps Sherlock to lay down on his right side. It's clearly not comfortable, but John doesn't know what else to do for him. No position save for standing will help, and Sherlock is too weak for that. He doesn't like to take painkillers, he's made that abundantly clear in the past, and John's not sure he's got anything strong enough even if he did. He'll have to visit the surgery tomorrow, when Sherlock wakes up stiff and, no doubt, in enough agony to accept them.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock says again.

"No you're not. Bloody hell, Sherlock." And he sits down in his chair, the events of the night suddenly crashing over him in a way that makes him feel faint.

There is a very long silence, and then Sherlock says almost hesitantly, "It's tradition. Well, you heard what Mycroft said. My family has always felt that corporeal punishment was the best way to deal with anyone who didn't fall in. When my father died, Mycroft felt it was his place to take over as the head of the family."

"So this has been going on since you were a child?" John doesn't even know if he can be angry anymore. There's just a bone-deep weariness left behind, aching and cold at the idea of a child being abused like this. 

"John."

"No, Sherlock. You - you do know this isn't right?" He leans forward, looking at Sherlock intently. "This is, it's _wrong_. I agree that sometimes you do things that are a bit not good. You go overboard, and you tend to forget that we're dealing with real people. But this is not the answer, do you understand? And I meant what I said. If Mycroft ever touches you again, I will kill him."

A thin line appears between Sherlock's eyebrows, and he stares hard at John. "But then Mycroft's men will kill you."

John scrubs a hand over his face and huffs out a tired laugh. "It would be worth it," he says, and when he takes his hand away it's to see Sherlock looking even more confused than before.

"I don't -" he starts, then stops. "No one has... ever done that. Stood up to Mycroft. They said." He stops again, but John can guess how that sentence would have been finished and oh, look at that, it turns out that he _can_ get angry after all. He has the sudden urge to track down every single person who ever said Sherlock deserved this and shoot them. Failing that, a nice punch to the face would do wonders. It certainly had for Mycroft.

"I don't care what they said," he replies when the silence drags on and Sherlock starts to look even more upset. He slides to the end of the chair and takes a deep breath before reaching out and smoothing his hand across Sherlock's forehead. The black curls are wiry and matted with sweat, but they're solid and real beneath his fingers. "They were wrong, Sherlock." 

Sherlock still doesn't look entirely convinced and that makes John's heart ache, but he doesn't say anything else and John's not sure how to keep pressing the matter without pushing too hard. This is not how he'd envisioned his night going, and he is so damned glad that he came straight home from the surgery instead of stopping at the pub. He does not want to imagine the alternative (Mycroft not stopping, coming home to worse) and settles on rubbing his thumb against Sherlock's warm skin as a reminder that he is here, healing, and alive. 

Eventually Sherlock's laboured, pained breathing evens out into sleep. John sits and watches him for a while longer before he goes to make tea. 


	2. Chapter 2

It's almost a week before Sherlock can move around without any pain at all.

Of course, that doesn't stop the stupid git from trying to get up from the sofa the very next morning. John ends up spending the night dozing in the chair, too exhausted to bother trying to make it up to his bed. It turns out to be a good thing because he wakes up to the sound of his kit hitting the ground and Sherlock flailing around like he's drunk, every movement just causing him that much more pain but not having the sense to just _stop_. Swearing about the stupidity of consulting detectives who can't wait five bloody minutes, John gets him back down on the sofa and orders him to stay there.

"Seriously, if you move before I say you can I'm going to _tie_ you down."

Sherlock sulks the whole time John's putting more cream and ointment on his back. He stays that way for the rest of the day, refusing tea or food. The next two days follow a similar pattern, though on the morning of the third day John finally breaks and threatens to force tea down Sherlock's throat if he has to. Pouting, Sherlock drinks three cups of tea and consumes two pieces of toast before he goes right back into his sulk. 

It's hard to say which of them is more pleased at seeing Lestrade that afternoon.

"I tried your phone but you didn't answer," Lestrade says, tucking a file under his arm. He surveys Sherlock's prone form doubtfully, looking a little surprised that Sherlock hasn't leapt up to meet him. "You sick?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock says, sitting up with only a slight grimace of pain. The blanket John had tucked 'round him is the only thing hiding the damage from Lestrade's concerned eyes, and Sherlock clutches at it protectively. "Has there been another murder? No, three more judging from the expression on your face. You wouldn't have come if there had only been one, you're still mad at me."

"Yeah, I am. You nearly got me fired." Lestrade shoots the door a long-suffering look, like he can't really remember why he bothered to come up in the first place except, oh yeah, there's a murderer out there damn it.

"You've still got your job," Sherlock says quickly, apparently realizing that there is a fair chance that Lestrade might actually depart without sharing the details of the case. He carefully does not look at John.

"That's not the point, you git." Shaking his head, Lestrade gives up. "You'll only follow me to the crime scene if I don't tell you, so at least this way I won't be surprised when you come popping out of the shadows. Here are the details on the first two cases. The third one is at the same location. Will you come?" He steps just close enough to hand over the file, and one slender, pale arm emerges from the depths of the blanket and snatches it away.

Sherlock flips the file open and scans it quickly. "Yes," he decides, and gets to his feet. The blanket gapes open just enough to reveal that he's naked underneath.

" _Clothes_ ," Lestrade adds pointedly, and Sherlock scoffs at him as he heads into his bedroom. "Lord, John, sometimes I think you must have the patience of a saint."

John gives him a faint smirk. "You've got no idea," he says wearily. Sherlock really shouldn't be moving around right now, but that's Sherlock: nothing else matters when there is a case underfoot. He resolves to keep a close eye on the idiot over the course of the case, because it would be all too easy for Sherlock to forget what he's doing and hurt himself worse. Judging by his reaction he hasn't been cared for all that often after punishment, and for once John wants to make sure he actually heals up well.

Of course, that is easier said than done. Sherlock throws himself into this case with just as much relish as the last one, regardless of the fact that he's got to be in pretty bad pain. He trades barbed insults with Donovan, insults the intelligence of Scotland Yard at least a dozen times, and nearly gets a punch in the face from Anderson. Only the stone cold look John gives the man makes Anderson think twice. 

The case ends with both of them soaked from an hour of waiting around in the rain. The murderer's been apprehended - Sherlock deduced that it was the young man who stayed in the room two months ago. His fiancée had dumped him in the room, and he'd developed a strange fixation on it that eventually led to him having a mental break and killing anyone who stayed there. How he deduced this is one of those mysteries John will never know the answer to - and they've finally returned to 221b, along with what is possibly half of London's water supply.

"Clothes off, now," John says the second they're both inside.

"Between you and Lestrade, I'm starting to suspect you two think I can't dress or undress myself."

"I can't speak for Lestrade, but if you haven't noticed we're both soaked and you're trailing water everywhere you walk. And I need to take another look at your back, anyway." John busies himself with stripping down to his underwear, realizing with a grimace that even the fabric of his boxers is damp. His skin is cold and clammy and he thinks longingly of a hot shower, knowing that he'll have to care for Sherlock first.

It doesn't help that he looks up to see Sherlock sprawled on the sofa. Still clothed.

"For fuck's sake, get up! You're going to get the whole thing wet and you'll ruin it." It's probably too late as it is. John has sudden visions of living on toast without jam for the next three months because they'll have to save money for a new sofa. He glares at Sherlock. "Clothes. Off. Now."

"If you wanted me naked, you have only to ask," Sherlock drawls.

"I'm fucking asking!"

Sherlock lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Very well." He gets slowly to his feet in a series of controlled, minute movements, clearly attempting to minimize how much it hurts, and begins to strip off his clothing. He's wearing a buttoned shirt, so he doesn't have to raise his hands over his head, and his jeans are the slightly looser ones he wears when John's been able to force a couple of meals into him. 

He is indeed stark naked underneath.

"Jesus," John mutters, averting his eyes too late. He swallows hard and tries to fight down the instinctual blush that he can feel heating his cheeks. He's seen Sherlock naked before, pretty hard not to when the man regularly wanders around with only a sheet for company, but it's a whole different matter altogether to watch him taking his clothes off. It feels a hell of a lot more intimate, and he thinks to himself that next time he's going to have to make sure to specify that clothes get taken off in the bathroom. Preferably behind a closed door.

He tries to collect himself. "How's your back? It must hurt, I'll get you a couple of -"

John stops breathing. Literally. His step forward has been impeded by the lithe figure suddenly kneeling in front of him. Sherlock tips his head back to look up at John, his blue-grey-green gaze filled with that strangely alert focus that means he's deducing. John does not want to think about _what_ he might be deducing. He takes a step backwards this time and knocks his foot against his discarded pile of clothing, nearly slips and takes in a gasping deep breath because of it. 

Over the sound of his coughs, Sherlock says, "I have to admit I've been wondering about you for the past few months, John. I know you want me, but you never made any move to have me. I thought perhaps I'd got it wrong, even though I noticed all of the tells repeatedly. And then I realized that you're a good man. You wouldn't want to just take what you want, even from someone like me. It occurred to me this morning that there's finally a reason."

"A reason?" John says weakly, because he can't quite process the words coming out of Sherlock's mouth.

"Yes." Sherlock tilts his chin and the light slides across his cheekbones. John's throat tightens. Sherlock smirks. "Like I said, I know that you've wanted me for a while and now you've got your chance. You can take whatever you like as repayment."

It's that word which finally gets John's stupidly slow brain moving. Even though he's taking in deep breaths, he feels like he can't breathe as he surveys the cocky set of Sherlock's shoulders, how at ease he looks on his knees - like he's been in this position a hundred times. Maybe more. It brings an awful new set of possibilities flooding into his mind.

"You want," he says quietly, "me to have sex with you. AS repayment for taking care of you." After your brother fucking _beat you_ , he does not add.

"Yes." Eagerness blooms in that face, never expressive unless Sherlock wants it to be, and he shifts forward just enough that John imagines he can feel the heat emanating off of Sherlock's skin. He'd be warm, John thinks a little dazedly, even through the chill of the rain. Sherlock's shivering a little, tiny spasms of muscles he can't control, and oh god could John ever finish warming him up.

It takes a good deal more strength than it should to say, "No."

"No?" Sherlock repeats, a sign that he's genuinely befuddled. He recovers quickly though, leaning forward even more. "But John, I _know_ you want me. I've seen -"

"I don't care what you've seen, Sherlock. This is not - it's just - No." John scrubs his hands over his face, because like what is his life? "I'm not having sex with you as payment, Sherlock."

"Oh. So you want something else, then." Sherlock looks briefly disappointed, but mostly intrigued. 

"No! I don't want anything. I - you're my best friend, and you were hurt, and what your brother did to you..." John knows he's babbling, knows he's doing a piss poor job of explaining because Sherlock does not look the slightest bit enlightened. Rather, he's doing that face that means he thinks _John_ is the one being an idiot. He shuts his mouth and takes another deep breath before beginning again.

"Sherlock, what Mycroft did to you was not right. I understand that some families favour corporal punishment, but this?" He points to Sherlock. "What Mycroft was doing? That crosses a line. It crosses so many lines in so many ways that I can't even begin to name them all without wanting to shoot your brother. No matter what you did, there's no reason for this. There never could be. And I'm your friend. When you're hurt, or sick, I want to take care of you."

As John speaks, it occurs to him that this is really the first time that Sherlock's been seriously hurt since they began living together. Despite the massive risks Sherlock has been known to frequently take, he usually never suffers more than a sprained wrist or ankle or a bump on the head. And in spite of how poorly Sherlock takes care of himself, he doesn't seem to get sick that often. 

"Why?"

John blinks. "Why what?"

"Why you want to take care of me?" Sherlock speaks the words like they're foreign. "Is it because you're a doctor?"

Forget Mycroft. John really wants to find the whole Holmes family and shoot them one by one. "It's because we're friends," he says, but even as he says it he gets the feeling that Sherlock doesn't really know what that means. 

Sherlock stares at him for a moment longer, eyes narrowed, before giving a single nod. He stands up gracefully and turns, not even bothering to fetch his clothes first. John can't help flinching at the sight of his back, buttocks and thighs. The bruised areas are livid and swollen, but Sherlock walks away like it doesn't hurt at all. The sound of his door closing snaps John out of his daze, and he realizes that he never did get the chance to look at Sherlock's back or get him into some warm clothing.

This... has gone spectacularly badly.


	3. Chapter 3

John has learned a few things about living with Sherlock. Namely, that sometimes it's best to give them both a little time to cool off. So instead of following Sherlock right away, he goes into the kitchen and makes a fresh pot of tea. He makes and drinks a cup, savouring the feeling of the steaming liquid warming him from the inside out, and then goes upstairs to get dressed. He pulls on jeans and a jumper, forgoing a shower for the time being, and returns to the kitchen long enough to get the rest of the tea and a box of chocolate biscuits he's been hiding from Sherlock for the past week. They're Sherlock's favourites, and John likes to save them for a time when the detective is being particularly obstinate about eating. In this case, he thinks they're better served as an apology.

He doesn't bother knocking, just twists the knob and pushes the door open to walk right in. Sherlock is curled up on his bed, still naked, the sheets bunched up in a tangle at the end. "You're going to catch a chill," John says before he can stop himself. It's such a _mother_ thing to say that he is, for a second, appalled.

Sherlock does not answer. Closing his eyes briefly in a bid for patience, John enters the room and sets the tray down on the stand. He leaves just long enough to fetch his kit before returning. "Can I look at your back?" he asks, and when Sherlock doesn't respond he decides to take that as permission. He perches on the side of the bed and runs a gentle hand down Sherlock's side, rubbing his thumb briefly against a bruise that's too close to a kidney for comfort. Sherlock shivers before the muscles in his back go tense, and John frowns as he opens his kit.

There is something going on here that John does not understand, but then when it comes to Sherlock that is hardly surprising. He sets about caring for the bruises and welts automatically while his mind struggles to make sense of it all. Sherlock has not had an easy time of growing up, that much is obvious. His family beats - "disciplines" - him on a regular basis even now, and when John found out Sherlock didn't believe that John, that _anyone_ , would stand up for him. Why? Had he honestly thought that John might approve of what Mycroft was doing? Or worse, had he believed that John might join in? Get a few of his own back for all the times John has got frustrated or annoyed with him?

And then tonight, with the offer of sex as repayment - the very idea makes John feel nauseous. It suggests something extremely unpleasant about Sherlock's past that he does not want to contemplate too closely, but he knows he has to. Sherlock's as much as said that he's not used to anyone caring for him: the idea of them being friends seems utterly foreign to him. It makes what happened between them at Baskerville take on an unpleasant new light, and he can't help remembering the look in Sherlock's eyes when he'd said that he didn't have friend _s_ , that he only has the one. 

It makes John wonder just what the word _friend_ means to Sherlock Holmes.

He breathes out slowly, a soft sigh, and dips his fingers in the cold cream. Sherlock shivers again at the first touch of careful fingers against a bruise. "Sorry, is that cold?"

"It's fine."

The response surprises John, he's not really expecting Sherlock to speak at all, and he pauses before deciding to continue. "Want to tell me what that was all about?"

"I miscalculated. It won't happen again."

"You miscalculated," John repeats, because what does that even mean? "Why would you think that I would want something as repayment? Have I ever given you any indication that I would?"

"No," Sherlock says, short and sharp. "But everyone does."

"Not me," John says quietly. "I don't." He slides his hand down lower, tending to the worst of the bruises on Sherlock's buttocks, and notices that Sherlock shivers for a third time. He swallows and tries again. "Did you... want to have sex with me?"

"It's not about what I want."

And, okay, that _really_ says things about Sherlock's past that John isn't prepared to deal with. He takes a deep breath to keep from getting too angry. "That's not true and you know it. What you want matters a lot to me, Sherlock. It always has and it always will." And anything that happened between them would never be because John wants it, not if Sherlock didn't. John is not that kind of man. He requires full participation on the behalf of both parties, thank you very much.

Sherlock rolls over then, an almost violent movement that John tries to stop without thinking by gripping Sherlock's shoulders tightly. He finds himself looking into blue-green-grey eyes cast in shadows. It's impossible to know what Sherlock is thinking, what he wants, and not for the first time John wishes he could see into Sherlock the way Sherlock can see into everyone else. It would be so much easier if he could. He deliberately lightens his hold - Sherlock doesn't need any more bruises - and keeps their eyes connected.

"Tell me what you want," he says quietly.

Predictably there is no answer. At least, not a verbal one. Sherlock is the first to look away, tilting his head to face the door, but his body bows forward just a little, a little motion that could almost be unconscious. _Is_ unconscious, John amends, judging by the way that Sherlock stiffens when John reciprocates by shifting a bit closer. John goes slow here, he thinks this is uncharted territory in more ways than one, and slides one of his hands around to press gently between Sherlock's shoulders. He brings Sherlock to him instead of the other way around.

Sherlock remains rigid against him, but John doesn't mind. It's a little awkward, but he doesn't dare move because that might be enough to scare Sherlock away entirely. He remains completely still, just breathing, one hand cupping the back of Sherlock's neck with just enough pressure to keep the man's forehead pressed against John's shoulder. They're close enough that he can tell that Sherlock is still chilled from the rain, of course he is, but this is all that John can do for the time being.

"John," Sherlock says after a couple of minutes. There's a question there, one that he does not voice, so John doesn't bother to answer. He tightens his hand briefly before letting go to run his fingertips lightly down Sherlock's back, taking care not to press too hard. 

He's never done this before with a man, even if there is no real sexual element to it. He's sat with his girlfriends before, even Harry a time or two, hugging them or offering comfort where necessary. When Harry broke up with a girlfriend for the first time, she cried on John's shoulder for hours because at the time neither of their parents knew that she was gay and he was the only one that she could tell. It had been uncomfortable because he and Harry weren't close, but he'd stayed because Harry needed him.

This isn't uncomfortable. It surprises him even as he acknowledges it, how very normal it feels. Ever since John returned from Afghanistan he doesn't have much physical contact with a lot of people. Most of the women he dates, he never gets that far before they're driven off by a meddling consulting detective. And he was expecting this to be weird, because yes Sherlock is naked, but John thinks they would be doing this even if they were both fully clothed. The fact that Sherlock has not pulled away speaks volumes about the fact that this is what Sherlock needs. More important, it's what he wants. He just doesn't seem to know how to ask for it. 

"You're thinking too much," Sherlock mumbles.

John tries to swallow a chuckle, unsuccessfully, and feels more than sees Sherlock's face twist into a pout. "There's always a fair amount if irony in you, of all people, telling me that," he says, mouth so close to the top of Sherlock's head that his lips brush against soft, rain-damp hair with each word. And then, just because he can, he throws his lot in and presses a kiss there.

Sherlock freezes.

"You," John says quietly, "don't need to offer sex just to get a hug from me, Sherlock. If you want a hug, you can have one anytime you like. Just ask." Or anytime you can't ask, he amends silently, because he doubts that it's going to be so easy.

He remembers back to the first night, how quickly Sherlock had fallen asleep while John was stroking his hair, and regrets not having understood this sooner. He tries not to think about Sherlock, alone on the sofa, sulking - or maybe trying to figure out how he could John to touch him, to indulge in the simple human comfort that not even Sherlock Holmes is above, and finally offering sex because he thought it was the only way he could have it. It makes his eyes sting and his throat ache hot.

Eventually, Sherlock very carefully leans just a bit more of his weight against John. When John doesn't do anything but simply sit there, Sherlock breathes out slowly and creeps closer. It's a bit like a wounded animal trying to trust again, and John holds himself completely still until Sherlock has made himself comfortable. He's crawled between John's spread thighs, almost turned sideways, knees drawn up so that he can fit between John's arms, head tucked against John's shoulder. Only then does John lift his arm, resting it across Sherlock's shoulders so that it won't put pressure on his back.

"Alright?" he asks, because he has to.

"I'm tired," Sherlock confesses. 

It feels like a hard won secret. Laughter bubbles up in John's chest and he swallows it again, makes a soft humming noise instead and bumps his nose playfully against the curve of Sherlock's ear. "That doesn't surprise me. All those hours on the sofa and I still think I slept more than you did."

Sherlock huffs in response and stretches his long neck, breath punching out of him a sigh. "Sleeping is boring."

"Well, you've got nothing more interesting to be doing. So." He keeps trailing his fingers up and down, almost lazily, and he feels it: the moment when Sherlock gives in and gets just a bit heavier from relaxing. He doesn't fall asleep, but that's alright. John likes it this way, likes this, and at least Sherlock is finally warmed up. He tells himself it's enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Things change after that night. It's not obvious, not something that anyone (who wasn't a Holmes) looking at them would be able to discern, but John knows that it's the truth. It takes at least another week before he feels safe in not tending to Sherlock's wounds every night, and although he's relieved that Sherlock is healing well - no scars to be seen, the bruising fading slowly but surely - he's a little disappointed that he no longer has an excuse to sit beside Sherlock on the bed and run his fingers through Sherlock's hair until the man falls asleep. For about a week, week and a half, Sherlock Holmes was actually getting enough sleep, and if possible the already rapid fire pace of his deductions only seemed to get faster.

But even though they no longer sit on the bed together, touch becomes a very real part of life at 221b over the next couple of months. Their fingers brush together when John hands over a cup of tea. He automatically rests a hand on Sherlock's shoulder when he leans down to look at the laptop. They stand a little bit closer at crime scenes, the middle seat in the cab is now always occupied, and it is not unusual for John to sit down on the sofa and find that, only a few minutes later, Sherlock has gravitated to the other end. He always stays there, the lines drawn invisibly, until John gives him some sign that his presence is welcome. Only then will he move closer, or - just once - lay down with his head in John's lap after a particularly taxing case that had not ended well.

And John realizes that he likes it. Like most people, part of the reason that he dates on a regular basis is because he craves contact with other people. He hasn't got the chance to do much of that since returning home from the war, and this casual intimacy with Sherlock is not solely for Sherlock's benefit. He's selfish enough to admit, if only to himself, that he likes this. He likes knowing that he can run a hand over Sherlock's hair and not be soundly rebuffed, likes knowing that their arms brush when they walk down the pavement, or that they can sit at a table at Angelo's with their knees pressed together. He tells himself that it's only because it feels good knowing that Sherlock trusts him enough to let this happen.

Because there is no denying that Sherlock appears to be enjoying this development as much as John. For one thing, Sherlock never goes out of his way to avoid the touches. In fact, he seems to revel in having John's attention be focused on him as opposed to dates. The few times that a woman has tried to flirt with John ever since things changed, Sherlock's taken great pleasure at butting in - usually before the flirting can get to the point of her slipping John a phone number - and pointing out that John is taken. He always does it with this great big smirk, like he's daring John to protest, and John's taken to just rolling his eyes and giving the woman a sympathetic smile, because really what else is there to say?

So Sherlock must be enjoying it. Or at least that's what John thinks. Hopes. Even though there have clearly been times in Sherlock's past when things happened to him that he wasn't okay with, but which he didn't do anything to stop. But John is pretty sure that if Sherlock really didn't want this, he would mention it. 

Wouldn't he?

"I can hear you thinking," Sherlock mumbles into the pillow.

"No you can't." John looks away from the telly. Sherlock is laying on the couch, his bare toes tucked underneath John's thigh for warmth. He's finally at the point where he can lay on his back comfortably, and he's taking full advantage of it. He's sprawled out over 3/4s of the sofa, head turned to the side so that his face is jammed between the back of the sofa and a the Union Jack pillow at an angle that must hurt, and up until this point John had honestly thought he was asleep. It's the only reason he'd allowed himself to start thinking. Worrying. It's like a sore tooth: he can't stop prodding at it.

"Yes I can, and it's exasperating." Head tilting slightly, Sherlock eyes him with a baleful look. It slowly changes into an expression of fleeting concern, though it smoothes away almost before John can register it. "Don't tell me you're still thinking about the case. Honestly, John, it wasn't your fault. You couldn't have got there any sooner."

"I know." He does know that, though the memory of a little girl screaming as her da is shot right in front of her leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. If they'd been only a couple of minutes earlier, it might've been enough to save them both.

Sherlock's eyes narrow slightly. "But it bothers you. That we weren't fast enough."

John hears _I_ not _we_ and shakes his head. "No, Sherlock. No. I know you did the best you could." He does know. Sherlock takes some cases more seriously than others, and after seeing the first video of the little girl with tears on her cheeks this had unquestionably been one of them. John doesn't doubt for a second that Sherlock would have solved the case faster if he could have. 

"Then what is it?"

It's unlike Sherlock to ask instead of just trying to deduce, and John knows he won't get a better offer. Still, the words stick in his throat and it takes a couple of tries for him to actually say it. "Does it bother you when, you know...?" He trails off and makes a gesture with his hand. Sherlock looks at him blankly. John sighs. "I mean, are you okay with me... touching you?"

And, okay, he might not have phrased that quite right. Because the words _touching you_ bring to mind something entirely different than what he actually means, and that's not what he wants Sherlock thinking. It's not what he wants to think. Of course he's thought about - that - a few times, just the idea is enough to make his face flush, but he knows it's not going to happen. Not with everything that's happened. He grits his teeth and hopes that none of his discomfort shows in his face.

There is a long few minutes during which Sherlock just stares at him, his forehead creased with little lines that mean he's trying to work out what's going through John's mind. John lets him do it, content to sit there and wait for a response. His tea has long since gone cold but he tosses back the last mouthful anyway, needing something to do. With the sound on the telly muted, there is nothing in the room but the combined sound of their breathing. Finally Sherlock blinks, his eyelashes creating half-moon shadows on his cheekbones.

"Yes," he says quietly. "I don't mind."

The barely audible confirmation is enough to make John relax a little. "That's good," he says, hardly aware that he's even speaking. "That's... that's good."

"You thought I wasn't?"

"I just..." John blows out a breath and meets Sherlock's eyes, wanting Sherlock to be able to read that he's telling the truth. "I wasn't sure, that's all. You never... you don't try to initiate it." And then, when something unidentifiable makes Sherlock's face suddenly close down, he adds quickly, "Not that I mind. I like it, what's changed between us, it's... good. I want things to stay this way, but only as long as you wanted it too."

Sherlock doesn't say anything for a moment. He looks like he's thinking. "Do you want me to... initiate it?"

Shit, John thinks. Sherlock sounds so hesitant, so _unsure_. This is clearly uncharted territory for him. John wonders, sometimes, if Sherlock's ever had a real relationship before. Has he ever had anyone who cared about or loved him? Someone who wanted to be around him, and not just for reasons that John doesn't need to think about at the risk of wanting to grab his gun and go hunting. He wants to smooth this over, kind of regrets ever bringing it up. 

Because the problem is, this is uncharted territory for John, too, and he's got the feeling that if he fucks this up that's it. He gets one chance and he doesn't know what the right answer is, whether saying 'yes' will make Sherlock assume that he has to, or if saying 'no' will make Sherlock think that John doesn't want him to. And he does want Sherlock too, feels like it will break down a few more of the walls that Sherlock has built up around himself, walls so strong that sometimes they feel more like an impenetrable fortress.

"I told you," he says very carefully, "that what you want matters too. So if you ever want - that, and I don't pick up on it, you can ask."

"Okay."

"Okay," John repeats, a little startled. He looks at Sherlock for a moment longer before he turns back to the telly, wondering if he's just screwed this up monumentally. Why couldn't he have just kept his mouth shut?

He sits there and stews until it seems like a reasonable amount of time has passed and he can pretend that it's late enough to be going to bed. He shuts the telly off and, noting that Sherlock has fallen asleep, spreads a blanket out across the man. Sherlock shifts as the blanket settles against his skin, but doesn't wake, and John lets himself stand there for a couple of minutes just looking at him. Sherlock doesn't look especially young while asleep, like some people do, but he does look peaceful. At rest. Like that incredible mind is calm for once.

Eventually, John goes upstairs and gets ready for bed, trying not to think about their conversation but unable to stop analyzing it from every angle. By the time he crawls between the covers he's exhausted. He sets his phone down on the stand and flops backwards, curling up into his pillow. His mind is still racing, but between the comfort of the bed and the warming heat of the sheets he can feel the tension starting to run out of his body. He lets his eyes drift shut.

About five minutes later, the door opens. John is instantly awake, listening intently. He hears the slow progress of feet padding across the floor and, when they stop beside the bed, looks up to see Sherlock. "What's wrong?" John says, the fresh bout of adrenaline making his heart pound. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock says nothing.

He just stands there, looking at John.

And then John _gets it_.

This is Sherlock asking.

Silently, swallowing back the words that want to spill out, he shifts over and pushes the covers down. Sherlock gets into the bed with him immediately, curling up on his side facing John. John tugs the sheets up over them again and lays there watching him. Sherlock doesn't speak and neither does John, but for once John feels like they don't have to: he thinks that maybe they're on the same wavelength this time, and since it probably won't last long he's going to enjoy it while it does. He closes his eyes and fall asleep smiling.


	5. Chapter 5

He starts liking the fact that Sherlock is there in his bed every morning a lot more than he thinks he should. Admittedly they don't always make it; there are loads of times when cases take precedent and they're both up for far longer than they should be or times when the bed is just way too far away and they either crash on the sofa or the nearest, relatively soft piece of furniture. The point is, Sherlock is always either there or hovering somewhere nearby when John wakes up.

He knows that Sherlock doesn't always sleep. A lot of the time Sherlock just lays there, thinking about a case or an experiment or god knows what else. But he seems to like just being there in the bed with John. Like he thinks that if he doesn't use his open invitation it's going to expire. John doesn't explain to him that it won't because the first morning he wakes up several weeks later and Sherlock isn't there, the height of his level of disappointment and worry is staggering.

He surveys the empty side of the bed that has somehow, slowly, become _Sherlock's_ side of the bed and listens for any sounds in the flat. He doesn't hear anything so he gets up to investigate. He finds Sherlock laying on the sofa, index fingers pressed against his chin in deep thought. John gives him a quick once-over, just long enough to reassure himself that Sherlock is fine, before he walks into the kitchen. Adrenaline is making him buzz, this early, and he needs a cup of tea.

"You're up early," he notes, carrying two cups back in with him. He holds one in front of Sherlock's face, angled so that the steam hits him right in the eyes until Sherlock gets annoyed and has no choice but to reach up and take it.

"I'm thinking," Sherlock mutters, accepting the cup reluctantly.

"About what?"

"Nothing important."

And that's that, except it's not.

For the most part things go back to normal and when John wakes up Sherlock is there next to him, but sometimes he's not. On those mornings Sherlock is usually on the sofa or in his chair, looking like he's trying to work out the mysteries of the world. As much as John wants to ask questions, he doesn't. Sherlock makes it clear that he doesn't want John to know what he's thinking about, and John knows better than to push when Sherlock isn't interested in sharing. He tries not to let on that it bothers him, those mornings when he wakes up alone, that it makes the rest of the day seem just a little bit strange. It says things about them, about this thing between them, that he's not sure he's ready to face.

Except then John figures it out, what's preoccupying Sherlock so much. It happens one night when he wakes up to find he's curled up behind Sherlock with his nose tucked into a set of untameable curls. He's nice and warm - for a tall, skinny bloke Sherlock can give off heat like a fire sometimes - and he's contemplating whether he wants to bother moving before he goes back to sleep when he realizes there's a problem. A fairly sizeable problem, though he says it himself, that's currently poking Sherlock right in the backside. If Sherlock happened to wake, there's no way he would be able to miss the erection nestled firmly against the swell of his buttocks.

Shit, John thinks, his heart suddenly pounding hard. He doesn't often wake up with erections, not since he returned from Afghanistan. Nightmares had taken care of that particular affliction. But having Sherlock around has numbed the terrors, given him more of a connection to the waking world even while asleep, and it appears that their routine has done more than just given him a good night's sleep. He immediately can't help wondering how often this has been happening without his notice. John closes his eyes, mortified, and carefully disentangles himself from Sherlock. He stills for a moment, watching to make sure Sherlock doesn't wake, but the detective shifts and mumbles something unintelligible before subsiding back into sleep.

John congratulates himself on getting all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen before he freaks out. "Fuck," he says out loud, pacing back and forth. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Good going, Watson. No wonder Sherlock's already down here sometimes, you've probably done a good job of giving the poor man a heart attack."

He runs his hands through his hair, tugging lightly at the blond and grey strands like it will give him an answer, something he's picked up from Sherlock when frustrated. Unfortunately, the pain fails to give him any useful insight. He knows that Sherlock's past, particularly when it comes to sex, has been less than favourable. Sex seems to have been used as a bartering tool, and even though Sherlock has never come right out and said it John suspects that he used to offer sexual favours in exchange for drugs or, during those times when his family was being insufferable or abusive, shelter and money. The last thing John wants to do is make Sherlock feel that John wants the same thing, especially after he's done his best to get Sherlock to understand that's not at all what he wants.

Only it is. Sort of. He does want Sherlock in that way, wants him in _every_ way. It's Sherlock for god's sake. How could John not want him? He just doesn't see a way to ever make things happen, and he's been okay with that, really, because he knows that anything he gets with Sherlock is better than the alternative, which is nothing at all. He's done his best to be good, so the realization that his body has been betraying him all along hits hard. He thinks of Sherlock, creeping downstairs in the middle of the night to get away from it all, and sinks into his chair with a muffled groan, clasping his hands to his face. Bloody buggering hell, what is his life? What is he supposed to do now?

"John?"

John jumps and his head snaps up to see that Sherlock is standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms and his blue robe. It's impossible to see his face thanks to the shadows, possibly deliberate, and John swallows hard. A strand of light coming in through the window is hitting Sherlock's long throat just right, and the flesh looks soft and tempting. "Sh-Sherlock," he says, dropping his gaze to the ground. The nice, safe ground that doesn't do a thing for him. "Did I wake you when I got up? I'm sorry. I was thirsty, so I -"

"No you weren't," says Sherlock, short and to the point. 

"Yes I - how, exactly, do you know that?" But John thinks he might already know the answer to that question.

"I was awake," Sherlock says, confirming his deepest fear. "When you didn't come back, I thought that maybe there was something wrong."

"Yeah, with me," John mutters, right before he fully processes what Sherlock just said. He furrows his brow and pauses, thinking. If Sherlock was awake, then he must have realized John was aroused. There was no way for him _not_ to have noticed. Yet he hadn't reacted. He hadn't got out of bed like he usually did. Had John woken up too fast? Got up first before Sherlock had to? Or is there something he's missing? He looks up at Sherlock again, staring hard, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow in return. "Why have you been getting out of bed some nights?" he asks.

"I needed to think."

"You couldn't have done that in bed with me?"

And - amazingly - it's Sherlock who looks away.

Curiosity piqued, John stands up. He's still shorter than Sherlock, but it makes him feel better to be on equal footing. "You've been acting weird," he notes. "Is there something wrong, Sherlock? You haven't - Mycroft hasn't been visiting you when I'm not around, has he?" Because John will seriously murder the man if that's the case, regardless of whether it means he'll have to spend the rest of his life in jail.

"No," Sherlock answers, quickly enough that John knows it's the truth. "I needed to think."

Sherlock loathes repeating himself, and that he has done so now sets off a warning alarm in John's mind. He takes a few steps closer, bringing them within each reach of each other. There is definitely something missing here, but he's not sure what it is. Best start with the process of elimination, then, no matter how awkward it makes him feel. "Is it - about how I woke up?" he asks, not quite able to look Sherlock in the eye. He stares at a point just over Sherlock's left shoulder instead. "I haven't reacted that way since I came home, but I suppose now that we're sharing a bed -"

"It's not you," Sherlock says, cutting him off, and there's something about the way he says that...

" _You_?" John says, maybe a little too surprised because Sherlock huffs and storms past him.

"I am human, John," he says sharply, bitterly. "I know you've alluded to the fact that you think I'm not in your blog several times over, but -"

"No, Christ, Sherlock that's not what I meant. I just..." John trails off, feeling utterly wrong-footed, not even sure he's understanding the situation right. "You got out of bed because you were... aroused?" And then, feeling the need to clarify, he adds, "by me?"

"Yes."

The word is very quiet in the otherwise silent room, but it still feels too loud. John's pretty sure he stopped breathing. "By me," he says again, faintly, just to be sure.

"Yes," Sherlock hisses, spinning around to face him. Now John can see his face, and he doesn't like what he sees there: anger, but not the razor sharp fury that Sherlock wields so well. Fear. "I was aroused, and you made your stance on the subject perfectly clear so I removed myself from the equation before you became aware of it. I was not sure whether you would be willing to continue sharing the bed if you were, and now that you know I suppose I shall resume sleeping on the sofa. So if you'll -"

"I said no back when you wanted sex in exchange for caring about you!" John exclaims. "I didn't mean I'd say no now."

Everything stops.

Sherlock's eyes are wide with interest. "So you'd say... yes?"

"I, um, that is..." John stutters. He watches, speechless, as Sherlock glides across the room towards him. In a matter of seconds they're face to face, chests pressed together, mouths inches apart. Sherlock studies him carefully, gives him a chance to pull away, but John holds still. Even when Sherlock's lips brush against his, even when he wants to grab those dark curls and plunder that gorgeous mouth, he makes himself hold still, right up until Sherlock goes to pull away. Only then does he move, hands rising automatically to stop Sherlock's retreat.

They look at each other, there in the familiar dark room, and it feels as though barriers are being stripped away one by one. John can see the desire in Sherlock's face, the want and need that he has only recently begun to admit to himself, and knows that Sherlock can see the same urges reflected in his own expression. 

"This," he says shakily, "can't be about - about repayment, or an exchange, or anything but you. And me. Us."

"I know," Sherlock says simply, and then he kisses John again.


	6. Chapter 6

John loses track of time as they stand there exchanging kisses, a few short and sweet but others so deep and passionate that he feels hot all over. For the first time ever he lets his hands wander freely over Sherlock, not holding back from. He's not doing it to arouse Sherlock, though that's definitely a bonus, but because he's had numerous fantasies that involve touching him everywhere and he wants to make them come true as soon as possible. And now that he's got permission to touch, it would take more will power than even John Watson possesses to keep his hands off. He delights in running his fingertips across every inch of skin that he can reach without moving away from Sherlock's mouth.

"You taste so good," he murmurs, their lips brushing with each word. It's true. Sherlock tastes like mint, like toothpaste, and John wonders if he took the time to brush his teeth before coming downstairs. If so, it suggests that Sherlock has been hoping for this even more than he let on. The thought warms John all over and he smiles, tipping Sherlock's head up carefully and placing kisses along the pale column of his throat.

Sherlock doesn't answer with words, but he arches his back and lets John pull down the fabric of his shirt so that even more flesh is exposed. He shivers when John's tongue sweeps across his collarbone, tracing the sharp curve back up to his shoulder and the tantalizing bit of skin at the base of his neck. John nips at it lightly before forcing himself to retreat, knowing that if he's permitted to go much further it will be all over too soon. He'll end up tackling Sherlock onto the sofa and it will become something fast and hot and furious, leaving them both spent in a matter of minutes. As appealing as that sounds, it's not really how he wants or needs this to happen. He needs to know that this means something more.

"Come on," he says, taking Sherlock's hand. Sherlock allows him to lead the way back upstairs, into his - their? - bedroom. The bed is a mess, with most of the sheets and both pillows now on the floor, and John takes the time to straighten it out. He fluffs the pillows before putting them back and straightens the covers with his usual care, and when he turns around again Sherlock is watching him with a little, faintly amused smile that makes John blush. But instead of telling Sherlock to shut up the way he usually would, he just grabs the man's hand again and gently pushes Sherlock down on the bed.

Apparently prepared for the landing, Sherlock only bounces once before he goes still. His dark curls spread out across the white pillows, he looks like a feast laid out for one man in particular. John can't resist crawling onto the bed. As much as he wants to lean over Sherlock and devour him, he lays down beside him instead and props himself up with his good arm. "You're sure about this? You can change your mind, you know. Nothing has to happen beyond this, Sherlock. It won't change my mind about us sharing a bed or anything like that."

"Are you going to keep asking me this the whole way through?" Sherlock asks.

"I only asked you once," John points out, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Fine. Yes, I am absolutely certain that I would like to fuck you," he says, and oh dear god hearing that deep voice say that does _things_ to John's brain. "I'm not interested in a one night stand either, John. You're... you are..." He trails off, looking frustrated at his inability to articulate whatever it is he wants to say. "You're different from everyone else."

John swallows hard, because his heart has just about melted, and leans down to give Sherlock another kiss. "So are you," he says. "You were the only person who looked past my limp to see what I could still do." It's the truth. Even when John thought that his days of being useful were over with, Sherlock had seen fit to show him otherwise. Sometimes he thinks about where he'd be without this incredible man. It's not a pleasant idea. The old dream about a wife and children with a practice now seems suffocating. 

"You just needed a better therapist," says Sherlock.

"I'm sure she'd appreciate hearing that," John says with a laugh. "Can I... will you take off your shirt?"

Sherlock sits up and pulls his shirt off without saying a word. He still looks thin, but not quite as bad as when he and John had first begun living together. Now he usually averages at least one meal a day, even if that meal is nothing more than heavily sugared coffee and a protein bar, and the results have been good for him. He lays back down and John reaches out, sliding a hand down his waist to rest on his hip. He rubs his thumb against the bone there and looks back up to meet Sherlock's eyes. They watch him steadily, not condemning, just curious.

He's definitely aroused, John notes, trailing his fingers lightly across Sherlock's crotch. He can feel the swell growing beneath his touch and it makes his heart skip a beat. He breathes out slowly and lets a finger slide beneath the waistband, pressing against bare, hot skin. Sherlock shifts and lifts his buttocks in a blatant invitation that John takes, sliding the cotton down Sherlock's thighs to the point where the man can kick them away. Because he's not wearing anything underneath, it leaves Sherlock open to his perusal. John feels hungry as he looks Sherlock over, his hands itching to touch and understand, and he thoroughly enjoys Sherlock's shaken gasp when John takes him in hand.

Sherlock is larger than he is, longer and about the same rate of thickness, and it's weird to be doing this to another man. It takes John a couple of minutes to get the rhythm right, to realize that it's essentially the same only he's doing it in the opposite direction. He keeps his eyes on Sherlock's face, learning what he does and doesn't like. Sherlock likes it when he rubs his thumb over the head on the downward stroke, but lines crinkle around his eyes when John slides up too fast. He slows his pace, pausing entirely before he sits up and reaches over Sherlock for the stand. The confused look disappears when Sherlock realizes what he's come back with: lube.

"Did you want..?" he trails off with another shift of his arse, another invitation that John is eager to take.

But he doesn't. He snaps open the tube and squirts some onto the palm of his hand, but shakes his head. "Not yet," he says to the questioning frown, using his other hand to push his own pyjama bottoms down around his thighs. His prick practically leaps up and slaps against his belly; he's fully hard now, the sight of Sherlock naked more than enough to get his blood pumping. He licks his lips and shifts closer until he can take both their shafts in hand. "Someday soon I do want to fuck you, and I want you to fuck me. But right now this is what I want. Is this okay?"

"You really think I'm going to say no?" Sherlock says, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of the cold lube, warming quickly due to the heat of John's hand. He bites his lip and pushes into the dual sensations, wanting more.

"I want you to enjoy this," John murmurs, captivated by the sight of that full bottom lip being nibbled. He can't help leaning in and kissing Sherlock, coaxing him to release his lower lip and let John take over. Sherlock shivers, breath hitching when John gently bites down on his lip. John smiles. "This is supposed to be about us, remember?"

"Yeah," Sherlock says, and then he doesn't say anything else because John has tightened his grip as much as he can and is beginning to move his hand up and down, slow, the way he's beginning to know that Sherlock likes it. The lube makes it a lot easier, makes everything nice and slippery, and the feeling of their cocks pressing together is _incredible_. John can feel his breathing starting to pick up, and he moans softly when their heads rub together. 

"Yeah," he breathes out, in full agreement, and kisses Sherlock again. "You're so incredible, Sherlock. I used to dream about having you here, in my bed, and what I'd do to you if I got the chance. I want to do everything."

"Everything?" Those eyes flash open, fixing on John's face, and Sherlock smirks lazily. "Would you like me to suck you, John? I bet you've fantasised about having my mouth wrapped around your cock. Maybe you'd like to come down my throat, or maybe you'd prefer it if you pulled out at the last minute and came all over my face. You could do that, you know. I'd let you. And I'd enjoy it. It would get me so hard, you'd be able to see me wriggling around on my knees, begging for the chance to come."

Every word makes the tight feeling in John's belly get that much tighter. He feels like he can't breathe. His hand stutters, the rhythm breaking, and Sherlock groans and his hand covers John's and encourages him to continue. They're both panting now and Sherlock looks absolutely wrecked. His face is flushed, eyes bright with arousal, and his plump, swollen mouth looks obscene. John can't stop looking at it, and when he does finally tear his gaze away it goes straight down to what's happening between them and that definitely doesn't help. He moans again, louder this time, and deliberately squeezes his fingers.

"Sherlock," he says, "Sherlock, oh god, I'm going to -"

"Come on, do it," Sherlock says, and then he's the one who groans and comes, spurting hot and wet between their fingers and against John's belly and shaft. His face twists into something that looks almost like pain, mouth falling open into a soundless cry, and it's so beautiful that John's coming before he can stop himself. He falls back against the pillow shaking, parted lips caught on Sherlock's name.

It takes a couple of minutes for his pounding heart to begin to slow, and when it does John feels lighter than he has in months. He opens his eyes to find that Sherlock is staring at him, but there's a soft smile on Sherlock's face that John's never seen before. It's a good sight. He grins back, finally kicking off his pyjama bottoms, and uses them to make a couple of half-hearted swipes across their bellies. It's not the best clean-up job he's ever done, but there's no way he's getting out of bed so it will have to do.

He reaches for Sherlock and feels a thrill when Sherlock curls up around him, their legs tangled together and Sherlock's head resting against his chest, and combs his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He feels Sherlock sigh in contentment, a sound usually only heard at the conclusion of a particularly mystifying and difficult case, and can't stop the no doubt goofy smile that spreads across his face. There's a part of him that had never thought they would get here, and even the part of him that had thought about it had never imagined it would be like this, and the reality is just a thousand times better.


	7. Chapter 7

It's been a long day at the surgery, made longer by the fact that he knows Sherlock spent the day with Lestrade investigating a cold case that had recently become hot. John sighs as he wipes his feet at the door and begins to climb the stairs. He'd texted his lover inquiring as to whether Sherlock wanted him to join them, but Sherlock's response had been both swift and negative: he and Lestrade were nearly finished, he'd said, and there was no reason for John to bother trying to get all the way across town when traffic was heavy. It's just as well, John thinks, but at the same time he can't help feeling a little disappointed. One of Sherlock's cases would've been a better end to the day than sitting in front of the telly with a cup of tea.

He opens the door and stops, instantly revising that thought as he stares at the intruder waiting for him. Sitting in his chair with a cup of tea sounds fabulous, far better than having an encounter with Mycroft Holmes. His hand tightens into a fist. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demands rudely. Suddenly he's relieved he came home without Sherlock.

"Hello, John," Mycroft says.

"Don't hello me. I thought I told you not to come back here." John steps inside, leaving the door open, and sweeps his gaze across the room. His heart is pounding furiously and he knows that if he sees _anything_ that suggests Mycroft is here to attempt more discipline on his younger brother then he can't be held responsible for his actions. But surprisingly, there is nothing. No crop, no paddle, no whip, not even an umbrella.

"I know what you're thinking, and that's not why I'm here. I've come to speak with you. I purposely chose a time when I knew that Sherlock would not be here." Mycroft folds his hands atop his knee and regards John calmly. "I understand if you don't wish to listen, and I will leave if that is really what you want." He lifts one shoulder in a shrug that looks oddly out of place and adds, "I suppose what I really came here to say is congratulations, and that doesn't take very long to say at all."

"You..." That's the last thing John is expecting to hear. He hasn't put much thought into Mycroft and what he might think of the relationship that's developed between him and Sherlock, but now he realizes that there was a part of him that wanted Mycroft to be upset by the news. 

Mycroft tilts his head. "Yes, that is correct. You see, John..." He trails off for a few seconds, and his gaze is oddly distant when he continues. "My family - our family - is terribly traditional. Even my parents clung to the older ways when they grew up, refusing to see that doing so was essentially akin to committing suicide. Our father was taught at a young age that a man lives his life in accordance with the wishes of his family, and he saw fit to pass those lessons on to Sherlock and me. And there was always punishment, of course, for those who refused to fall in line. It started young and fairly mild: long and painful spankings for toddlers with a graduation to a wooden hairbrush at the age of six. Canes and paddles for teenagers, straps and crops for when we truly misbehaved at any age." He smiles weakly.

The anger is burning out of John little by little, replaced with a morbid sense of curiosity. He doesn't think he should be listening to this, knows that this is information Sherlock will not want him to know, and yet he can't make himself walk away or order Mycroft to stop. He wants to learn more about Sherlock and the world he grew up in, and he does not think for even a second that Sherlock will ever be able to tell him. He crosses the room slowly and sits down in his chair, voicing only one word. "Continue."

"There were alternatives, of course, such as being shut away in a room or going without food for a day or so. I learned to avoid all of these punishments by the time I was fourteen. The last time my father ever took a whip to me, I had brought home grades that reflected me as second in my school." His fingers flex, tightening slowly until his knuckles stand out white. "He did not touch me again."

"And Sherlock?" John says, mouth dry.

"Sherlock was... a different story altogether. I considered it to be a personal challenge to learn how to fit in with the rest of the world, John, and even now I am still learning. But Sherlock... no doubt you're intimately acquainted with how much he enjoys being on the outside, how little he desires to fit in with everyone else. In my father's eyes that made him a failure, and he punished Sherlock at length for any indiscretion. My brother was always a difficult child, always asking questions, and no matter how much my parents disciplined him he refused to change. Several times my father decided to branch out to avoid doing permanent damage to his buttocks. One of his favourite punishments involved taking a strap to Sherlock's hands so that he could not play the violin."

John thinks he might be sick with rage. "And you didn't do anything to stop him?"

"I was away at boarding school much of the time, and I..." Mycroft pauses, again, and takes a deep breath. "You must understand, John. Normally the discipline works and produces functioning, respected members of society who do very well for themselves."

"Yes, well, that didn't exactly work this time did it?" John spits. "Because you were fucking _beating_ your brother not two months ago, Mycroft. That doesn't look like it worked to me!"

"As I said, Sherlock was different. When my father died, I became the head of the family and it fell to me to make sure that Sherlock was taken care of. That also meant it became my job to administer the discipline."

The words are spoken so simply that John boils over. "So why the hell did you keep doing it? You were there, Mycroft, you know what it was like go through that! You must have realized that it wasn't working for Sherlock! The things you've done, they're not discipline. That's just your way of justifying it to yourself. It's _abuse_ , Mycroft." Somehow, he finds himself on his feet. "No wonder Sherlock doesn't trust anyone, or goes days without eating, or - or - for fuck's sake, _what the hell is wrong with you_?"

"You're right," Mycroft whispers. He looks very old.

John glares at him. "You could've put a stop to this ages ago," he says very slowly, because he needs to see that Mycroft understands the reality of what he's done. "You should have stopped this. You were his brother, you were supposed to protect him, not join in. Sherlock is, he's brilliant, and it kills me to think of how close you and your parents came to destroying him."

Mycroft winces. "You're right," he repeats, a little louder, finally looking John in the eyes. "I have been monitoring you and my brother over the past few weeks. I honoured your request for me to stay away, but I was fully expecting that without - without my hand -" he deliberately avoids using the word discipline "Sherlock would become wilful, disobedient and out of control, a danger to both himself and others. But I was wrong."

It's the first time John has ever heard those words, or anything like them, from Mycroft. He takes a step back, suddenly realizing that he's been looming over the man, and surveys him critically. "How do you mean?" he asks at last, suspicious.

With a shake of his head, Mycroft rises to his feet. "I know it's difficult for you to believe, but I do love my brother very much. I am... pleased... that you are here with him. He has flourished under your care. I offer you my congratulations and hopes for a long and happy marriage." He extends a hand and waits. 

It takes almost a minute for the words to fully absorb, and when they do John's gaze drops to the hand that's hanging in the air in front of him. Unlike the last time Mycroft made a snide remark about marriage, he actually sounds sincere - like even though he knows that John and Sherlock are not married, Mycroft hopes that someday they will be. He sounds like a future brother-in-law.

But John can't do it. He can't. He can't shake the man of someone who has beaten Sherlock so thoroughly, no matter what reasons or justification Mycroft may be able to give. He leaves his hands at his sides as he straightens his shoulders and meets Mycroft's eyes squarely. "You should go."

"Yes," Mycroft says after a brief pause, and he lets his hand drop. "I should. Thank you again, John. I thought I was doing the right thing, but..." He lets the sentence trail off into nothing as he steps past John. He's nearly at the door when John hears the door downstairs slam open and familiar footsteps taking the stairs two at a time, and he understands in a horrible flash Mycroft's sudden desire to depart. How Mycroft knew, John has no idea, but he feels the familiar urge to protect rising up.

"John! I must tell you about this marvellous case -" Sherlock's exuberant voice dies quickly as he comes to a stop and spots his brother. All of the joy in his face vanishes, and he pales ever so slightly. 

"Sherlock." Mycroft takes a step towards him, and Sherlock's flinch is almost imperceptible but it's enough to stop Mycroft in his tracks. "I was just - I want you to know that from now on, I will not touch you again. In any manner." He pauses, throat bobbing as he swallows, and adds with apparent difficulty, "I was... wrong. I'm sorry. I hope that from now on, you will continue to be happy."

Sherlock's mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. He's speechless. Mycroft appears to take that as a response in and of itself because he nods again and then slips past his brother, leaving a few inches space between the two of them. John remains where he is, listening to the sound of Mycroft descending the stairs and leaving. It feels as though a weight has slipped from his shoulders when he hears the sound of the door gently shutting, and he crosses the room quickly to his lover.

"Are you alright?" he asks urgently, unable to resist placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. When Sherlock fails to answer he lifts his hand and cups Sherlock's cheek, gently bringing his chin up. "Sherlock, please."

"Was that _my_ brother?" Sherlock says finally, still astonished. "What did you _say_ to him, John?"

"Very little," John admits. Not nearly as much as he'd imagined. He'd never thought that talking to Mycroft again would involve so much listening. He lets his hands slip around to Sherlock's back, pressing against him in an embrace that Sherlock eagerly sinks into. He tucks his face into Sherlock's neck, breathing in the familiar scent, and adds, "Tomorrow morning we're getting the locks changed."

Sherlock shakes, a silent tremble of laughter. "It won't help."

"No, but it will make me feel better." He wonders if Sherlock is really okay, or whether Mycroft's appearance will set their progress back a few days, weeks even. He lifts his head for a kiss that's granted, Sherlock's slender fingers sliding around his neck in a thoroughly possessive gesture that never fails to make John _want_. He thinks that Sherlock will be fine, that they both will, and if Mycroft ever tries to rescind on his promise - well. John will be there to make sure that doesn't happen.

"Can I tell you about my case now?" Sherlock whispers between kisses.

John smiles. "Of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the comments and support, guys.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


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